Matters of life and death

The case for the abolition of draws in international Test rugby is now surely overwhelming. After 80 minutes of utterly magnificent, enthralling drama in Paris last weekend, both sides trudged off the park physically shattered and, it was visibly apparent, deeply dejected with the result.
There may be some justification for the honours-even principle in, say, a heavyweight title fight (where it’s never too prohibitively difficult to arrange a lucrative rematch if the will exists on both sides), but a contest as immense on so many levels as last Sunday’s surely deserved a definitive conclusion where somebody wins and somebody loses. There can be no doubt that, knackered though they were, both teams would have happily played it out to the death if required.
Though the French undoubtedly regard any failure to win any home game as an affront to the natural order of the universe, Ireland’s disappointment was probably the greater, having racked up a spookily convincing 17-6 lead at half-time (while giving every impression they were capable of roaring further ahead).
We then failed to add to that points tally throughout a second half where we spent a good uninterrupted 15 minutes camped deep in French territory. The mercurial hosts could have seized the day with a late penalty which would have been cruel beyond belief, but the final whistle still felt like a death knell rather than a blessed relief.
The title is now out of reach (unless one seriously imagines Wales failing to overcome Italy in Cardiff) and the remaining two games are rendered somewhat academic, a state of affairs which seems grossly unfair to the ingenuity, courage and skill of Ireland’s overall efforts over the course of three games to date. It will be forgotten by many that, had Stephen Ferris not been (debatably) penalised in stoppage-time against the Welsh, we would now be sitting pretty atop the table. More infuriatingly still, Jonathan Sexton’s early penalty miss in Paris when the game was still scoreless looks easier every time you watch it, and loomed very large indeed at the final whistle.
Nonetheless, the team remains in rude health, with not a whole lot that needs fixing, and a Grand Slam next year with France and England to visit Dublin doesn’t look like totally wishful thinking. Rob Kearney was spellbinding and, at 25, looks a safe bet for several years to come. Ferris and Paul O’Connell were everywhere, both indeed seeming to be in several places at once, neither betraying the slightest hint of tiredness during that nerve-shredding final five minutes where it seemed the French might be about to apply the final cut.
Tommy Bowe might have gotten slightly lucky (his first try was a gift-wrapped intercept, and if I may nit-pick, his second looked like the stuff of dreams but depended to some extent on a kindly bounce of the ball where he might have been wiser to supply Kearney inside) but a two-try individual display away to France is never to be sniffed at. The overall display may also have served to permanently banish any phobia of Paris that may have existed in the Irish camp, a record of one win in 40 years having appeared to weigh heavily around their necks on more than a few previous visits.
On to soccer matters, then, as we wave a fond farewell to Andre Villas-Boas, now surely destined to join such hallowed names as Christian Gross and Alain Perrin as textbook cautionary tales of ‘foreign’ managers in the UK hopelessly over-promoted beyond their abilities. Sympathy for AVB does not come all that naturally: he cut a whiny, moany figure from the off, relentlessly searching for excuses at every turn, doing his level-best to cram the word ‘project’ into every sentence at least twice, and sounding like a right teacher’s pet when he bluntly stated that it didn’t matter whether or not the players liked him as long as he had the owner’s backing.
In his defence, it must be conceded that the Chelsea dressing-room is not an easy place to command, and the boardroom seems to be even worse, with far too many shadowy power-brokers vying for influence over transfer policy and generally making sole control impossible for the manager, a state of affairs which eventually prompted Jose Mourinho’s acrimonious exit four-and-a-half years ago, a blow from which the Blues have yet to really recover.
AVB’s fate, above all, strengthens the impression that Premier League managers whose first language is not English, in general, are well advised to say as little of substance as possible when in the immediate vicinity of cameras and microphones.
At Manchester City, for example, Roberto Mancini can be breathtakingly dull in his public pronouncements, rarely if ever deviating from the standard script of, “We are pleased to get the three points and we must now prepare for the next match.” This makes for dreadful copy from a tabloid editor’s perspective, but Mancini’s ability to keep actual comment to a minimum is in fact one of his numerous strengths as a manager.
One can obviously understand any manager’s wish to vocalise his opinions in public, but in most cases, the risk of losing something in translation (or, worse, gaining unintentional nuances) is too great to make it worthwhile, and can make quite obviously intelligent men sound the exact opposite. Even managers who are winning week-in, week-out would be well-advised to hold their counsel: three years ago at Liverpool, Rafa Benitez’ title challenge was proceeding beautifully smoothly until he launched into his ill-advised “these are the facts” rant, a performance which surely had old Fergie grinning from ear to ear while every sane Liverpool fan held their heads in their hands and silently begged, “Please stop this immediately.” Foreign managers who’ve actually succeeded in England (Mourinho, Wenger, Ancelotti, and at a less elevated level the likes of Roberto Martinez and Martin Jol) have either had a fluent command of the language or (in Mancini and Ancelotti’s cases) known precisely when to zip it.
Where dear old Giovanni Trapattoni fits into all this is difficult to fathom; even his fellow Italians reliably report that they tend to be completely confused whenever he engages in speech, so it seems reasonable that we feel the same and shouldn’t lose too much sleep over it. The boss recently went out of his way to stress that his squad for this summer is by no means set in stone, and remains open to being influenced by little things like club form on a week-in, week-out basis, but one suspects that his mind is already made up about most things.
The toughest call by far is up front, where all five of Keane, Doyle, Long, Cox and Walters look simply too good to leave at home: Cox’s late equaliser against the Czechs last week would have done Lionel Messi proud, and hardens the hunch that we’ll find a way somehow when the going gets tough this sumer, which it assuredly will. The countdown continues...